Aleyne first telling him about the Wise, and his journey up the mountain. Aleyne had said “I rode my horse”—but the path was too steep and narrow for a horse.
I must have gone the wrong way! thought Paul, angry at all his wasted climbing. He thought of all that effort, and considered going on. But it was obviously the wrong path…
“Down it is,” said Paul aloud, turning back down the path. But even as he took the first, easy downhill steps, the path seemed to fade away, melting into the yellow heather, or the green-grey mottled stone.
He took a few more steps, but the path disappeared, leaving no sign of its prior existence. He quickly looked around, and the path uphill was going too—though it was contracting, racing up the hill, rather than fading.
With a strangled yelp, Paul jumped after it, taking great bounding steps up the slope. The heather brushed against his legs as he crashed through it, chasing the path that retreated just a little faster than he could run.
Then, without warning, both the path and the boy burst out of the mist, into yellow sunlight. The path suddenly stopped, and Paul jumped on it, taking great satisfaction in seeing his boot-prints on the open dirt. He took a few steps along it, to give himself a head start, in case it started to race away again, and looked around.
Downhill, a thick wall of mist obscured any view, but uphill, the sun was shining, its warmth already touching Paul’s mist-wet clothes and face. A little farther along, the heather started to fall back, and above this border of heather loomed the grey shale peak that was the top of Rhysamarn.
But it was what lay in between that attracted Paul’s attention. Just above the heather, but before the grey stone, lay a field of dark brown earth. It was larger than a suburban garden, but not really a decent market garden size. And in the middle of it, an old man was planting something that looked very like cabbages.
Hesitantly, Paul walked over to the field. Aleyne had told him that the Wise appeared in different guises, but he hadn’t expected an old man planting (or transplanting) baby cabbages.
“Hello,” said Paul, upon reaching the edge of the field. “I’m Paul. I’m looking for the Wise.”
The old man looked up from the cabbages, revealing a lined face, rosy cheeks and a reddish nose. His white hair and mustache threatened to weave a mask around his face, but he parted the long locks with a dirty hand. The bright eyes that looked at Paul were in no way obscured or dimmed by his bushy, walrus-like eyebrows, which quivered as he spoke.
“The Wise, eh? Well, you’ve come to the right place. Rhysamarn—the Mountain of the Wise. Or literally, Place of Wisdom, Mountain.”
“Yes,” said Paul, doubtfully. This wasn’t the reception he’d been expecting, particularly since the old man hadn’t stopped transplanting cabbages. He had hundreds of them, it seemed, in a wooden box that he dragged along between the rows.
“Well, come and help, boy,” snapped the old man. “Part of being wise is knowing the value of things. And advice got for nothing is often worthless. In your case, I would say you need counseling to the value of…about eighty transplanted cabbages.”
“Uh,” said Paul, who’d avoided even doing theweeding in his father’s garden. But he knelt down next to the box of cabbages, and asked, “What do I do?”
The old man told him, demonstrating how to make a suitable hole, with a clenched fist pushed into the soil, and twisted several times. Paul soon learnt the knack of it, but even so, he lagged behind the old man. Closer to, this potential sage looked even more unsuitable for the role of one of the Wise. He was dressed in a simple robe of what looked like sackcloth, and wore wooden sandals that clattered as he crawled forward on his knees. And having been in the cabbage field all day, he was covered in dirt.
The sun rose higher above the cabbage planters, and then began its slow
I must have gone the wrong way! thought Paul, angry at all his wasted climbing. He thought of all that effort, and considered going on. But it was obviously the wrong path…
“Down it is,” said Paul aloud, turning back down the path. But even as he took the first, easy downhill steps, the path seemed to fade away, melting into the yellow heather, or the green-grey mottled stone.
He took a few more steps, but the path disappeared, leaving no sign of its prior existence. He quickly looked around, and the path uphill was going too—though it was contracting, racing up the hill, rather than fading.
With a strangled yelp, Paul jumped after it, taking great bounding steps up the slope. The heather brushed against his legs as he crashed through it, chasing the path that retreated just a little faster than he could run.
Then, without warning, both the path and the boy burst out of the mist, into yellow sunlight. The path suddenly stopped, and Paul jumped on it, taking great satisfaction in seeing his boot-prints on the open dirt. He took a few steps along it, to give himself a head start, in case it started to race away again, and looked around.
Downhill, a thick wall of mist obscured any view, but uphill, the sun was shining, its warmth already touching Paul’s mist-wet clothes and face. A little farther along, the heather started to fall back, and above this border of heather loomed the grey shale peak that was the top of Rhysamarn.
But it was what lay in between that attracted Paul’s attention. Just above the heather, but before the grey stone, lay a field of dark brown earth. It was larger than a suburban garden, but not really a decent market garden size. And in the middle of it, an old man was planting something that looked very like cabbages.
Hesitantly, Paul walked over to the field. Aleyne had told him that the Wise appeared in different guises, but he hadn’t expected an old man planting (or transplanting) baby cabbages.
“Hello,” said Paul, upon reaching the edge of the field. “I’m Paul. I’m looking for the Wise.”
The old man looked up from the cabbages, revealing a lined face, rosy cheeks and a reddish nose. His white hair and mustache threatened to weave a mask around his face, but he parted the long locks with a dirty hand. The bright eyes that looked at Paul were in no way obscured or dimmed by his bushy, walrus-like eyebrows, which quivered as he spoke.
“The Wise, eh? Well, you’ve come to the right place. Rhysamarn—the Mountain of the Wise. Or literally, Place of Wisdom, Mountain.”
“Yes,” said Paul, doubtfully. This wasn’t the reception he’d been expecting, particularly since the old man hadn’t stopped transplanting cabbages. He had hundreds of them, it seemed, in a wooden box that he dragged along between the rows.
“Well, come and help, boy,” snapped the old man. “Part of being wise is knowing the value of things. And advice got for nothing is often worthless. In your case, I would say you need counseling to the value of…about eighty transplanted cabbages.”
“Uh,” said Paul, who’d avoided even doing theweeding in his father’s garden. But he knelt down next to the box of cabbages, and asked, “What do I do?”
The old man told him, demonstrating how to make a suitable hole, with a clenched fist pushed into the soil, and twisted several times. Paul soon learnt the knack of it, but even so, he lagged behind the old man. Closer to, this potential sage looked even more unsuitable for the role of one of the Wise. He was dressed in a simple robe of what looked like sackcloth, and wore wooden sandals that clattered as he crawled forward on his knees. And having been in the cabbage field all day, he was covered in dirt.
The sun rose higher above the cabbage planters, and then began its slow
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